


I Feel Like Death Personified

by mggislife2789



Category: Criminal Minds, Spencer Reid - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Reader-Insert, Sick Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-12-01 12:34:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11486496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mggislife2789/pseuds/mggislife2789
Summary: Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters or their original stories. This is only for fun. It's where my brain goes after the credits roll. No copyright intended. Better safe than sorry. ;)





	I Feel Like Death Personified

The softest voice possible emanated through the phone. “Y/N?”

“Spence?” It was his number, but it didn’t sound like him. “Are you okay?”

A hacking noise followed by a series of sneezes sounded off before his voice returned. “I feel like death personified. Help me.”

Oh god. Spencer never got sick - like ever. His immune system had to be fucked up for him to sound so horrible. “I’ll be over in a few minutes.”

“Do you have the key? I can’t remember,” he said. Too many words in a row caused him to start coughing again. “Because I don’t want to get up. Also, did you know that personas of death are so common that they tend to be studied in categories by region, sex, religion, and even more recently in film?”

You giggled into the phone, simultaneously feeling bad for him and laughing at his almost drunken stupor. “I didn’t know that,” you said, glancing at the time on the stove to see if you should grab him some soup for dinner. “But I do have the key. We’ve been dating for over nine months, remember?”

“Oh…wow…” he said, his head hitting the pillow with the a soft thud. “I told you…I feel like death.”

For someone who normally sounded so sexy, it took a lot for him to sound horrible, but he did. “You sound like it,” you chuckled. “I’ll be over in a little bit.”

—-

About 30 minutes later, you walked up to your boyfriend’s apartment with a bag from the diner in your hand and his key in the other. “Hi, Y/N,” he croaked as his head lifted off the pillow. Your normally super sexy boyfriend looked like absolute ass, but his vulnerability was endearing. “Is that soup?”

“Yes,” you said, walking over and kissing him on the forehead. “Oh my god, you’re burning up! Have you taken your temperature?” As your lips had touched his forehead, the sensitive skin immediately began to pull in heat. He had to have a temperature of at least 101. When Spencer shook his head, that no, he hadn’t taken his temperature, you ran into the bathroom and came back to place the thermometer under his tongue. 

He sat up from the couch, having slept all morning, while you walked around the kitchen and cleaned up some dishes, stopping only when the thermometer started beeping. When you walked over to take the thermometer out, Spencer looked up at you with such sleep in his eyes you wondered how he was still awake. “Baby, you have 101.6 temperature,” you said, placing the back of your palm on his forehead as well. As he started to stand up, you pushed him back down into the couch. “No way. I’m gonna go get you some medicine and then you need to go back to sleep.”

“I have things I need to do,” he said, a look of panic washing over him. Spencer had a schedule. When he was off from work, he’d get up in the morning at around 9 and have a cup of coffee. Then he’d do dishes from that morning and the night before, and then laundry. Because he’d been sick, he’d done none of the household chores, and things were dirty, which you could tell was driving him crazy. 

Spencer tried to get up again, but you bossed him around and pointed for him to sit down. “Medicine, blanket, bed!” You laughed. “I’ll do the dishes and the laundry because I know you’re bugging out right now.”

After he took the medication, it took less than five minutes for him to pass out again. His nearly 6′2″ form was curled into a tiny ball on the couch; the only piece of him visible was his eyeball. The rest of him was shaking and covered, his body trying the best it could to shake the fever. 

Finally after about a half hour of dishes and laundry, you peered over the back of the couch to see how Spencer was doing, but he was still shaking. “You need another blanket,” you said to no one in particular. As you ran inside, you could hear a loud snore from the couch. At least whatever he had wasn’t keeping him from sleeping well. “Here we go.” An avid crocheter, you had made him a massive multi-colored super soft blanket that he liked so much he never used for fear of ruining it. The moment you laid it over him, his shivering lessened, and within another fifteen minutes his snoring was at an all-time high. 

You could’ve left; he’d probably be asleep all day and considering how crappy he felt it was a distinct possibility that he wouldn’t even remember you having come over, but you had nothing else to do today and you knew the moment he got up he would try and do things; you needed to keep him still and doped up on meds until he got better. So while he slept, you pulled out your laptop and did some work, plugging in your headphones to drown out his snoring. It was nearly 9 at night, four hours after he’d called you, that he woke up.

“Hey,” he said sleepily, his eyes still closed and a smile spread across his face. “When did you get here?”

“Baby, I’ve been here for four hours. You called me before.”

“Dammit,” he giggled. At least he sounded a little better. “I should do some dishes.” He flipped the blanket off and placed it on the back of the couch.

“Already done.”

“Laundry?”

“Did it.”

“So, I have nothing to do,” he said, sitting back down.

“Nope.” You grabbed the second set of pills you wanted him to take and placed them in his hand along with a glass of water. “Just take medication and get better. Lots of sleep.” You came to sit at his side, your legs tucked underneath you.

With a heavy head and still sleep-filled eyes, he rested his head on your shoulder. “Thanks, Y/N,” he muttered. “I hate being sick. Makes me feel…”

“Useless,” you both finished. “Do you mind staying here tonight? I mean, I understand if you don’t want to risk getting sick, but I’d like it if you stayed.”

You glided your nose up his collarbone, pressing kisses to his heated skin along the way. “Of course, I’ll stay. You just have to promise me that if I get sick because of you, you have to take care of me too.”

“That I think I can do,” he yawned, his arms stretching out above his head to reveal his subtle hairs. “I’m still tired.” He kicked his legs up and down like a child and whined; he hated being sick. “Why am I still tired?”

“My genius boyfriend with an IQ of 187, an eidetic memory and the ability to read 20,000 words per minutes doesn’t have an answer to that?” you asked rhetorically. 

“Actually,” he said, his fingers wiggling together as the most animated smile since you’d walked in the door plastered itself across his face, “They’ve been doing studies recently on worms where when they’re under stress a chemical called FLP-13 is released and it causes them to fall asleep. Scientists are starting to think the same is true with humans, so there is a legitimate excuse.”

A yawn escaped you as well and you leaned into him. “Want to go to bed then? I can be the big spoon tonight.”

“That sounds nice,” he slurred. God, he was so tired. “I don’t feel like death anymore, but I’m still tired.”

He followed you inside and got into bed, sitting up until you changed into a pair of pajama pants and a tank top. “Lie down,” you said, crawling in behind him. You placed your arm around his torso and hugged his back to you. “Comfortable?”

Your answer was a light, low and rumbling snore.


End file.
